


keep your heart close to the ground

by TrulyCertain



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Dragon Age Remix Fest 2017, Gen, Remix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-12-17 23:51:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11862255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrulyCertain/pseuds/TrulyCertain
Summary: Putting Alistair on the throne will be a total disaster. At least, that's what he keeps pretending. Turns out he's actually pretty good at this whole kinging thing. (A remix of withthebreezesblown's "Too Dark To Read.")





	keep your heart close to the ground

**Author's Note:**

  * For [withthebreezesblown](https://archiveofourown.org/users/withthebreezesblown/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Too Dark to Read](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10875075) by [withthebreezesblown](https://archiveofourown.org/users/withthebreezesblown/pseuds/withthebreezesblown). 



> Too Dark To Read is a detailed, clever happy ending for King Alistair with plenty of bittersweetness and credit given for his intelligence, and most importantly, PUPPIES. Sadly, only one puppy appears in this fic, but only because Breezes has the rest covered. This isn’t a direct prequel or sequel, more some missing in-between scenes; some extra “our boy grows up and is actually pretty good at this kinging thing.” Hope I’ve done your beautiful fic justice, Breezes.

She’s only been a sister for two weeks, but she’s already seen the boy a few times, usually getting his ear clipped or once, skidding round the corner darting down a corridor, chased by a succession of different people who were all in robes and exceedingly angry. She hears  _troublemaker_ and  _bastard_ and occasionally  _little shit_ – in the words of Brother Brendan, after stubbing his toe halfway through a rant about the boy -and she makes a note to be wary.

She’s bringing bread into the kitchen when she sees a short figure with hair in all directions scrubbing pots and, very quietly, humming. She sees him tense, as if expecting another shouting-at, but the cook’s saying something and there’s no time to think, no time at all.

It’s only a couple of days later that she’s walking past one of the small supply rooms when she sees the copper glint of candlelight on hair. She stops, even with the laundry in her arms, and peers in as unobtrusively as she can.

The boy doesn’t even notice her. He’s sitting next to a simple wooden chessboard – one of the simple ones, from the library, not even worth stealing, but somehow she doesn’t think that’s what he’s doing. He’s silent, a far cry from the jittery little menace in their stories who talks with his hands and is the bane of the Revered Mother’s life, and he looks thoughtful, brown eyes shining slightly in the dim light. He’s turning the carved king piece in his hands, over and over, watching it.

No, not thoughtful, she realises, after a moment. He looks terribly sad.

 

The boy is bright – far brighter than he pretends. Duncan recognises that, as someone who was similar, once. He’s quick on the uptake, and wry, though he hides it with… broadness. He grins and talks with his hands, lets sentences drag on and crash into each other until his audience is amused or exasperated. There is something of his father in him, it is true, but there’s something warmer there. The boy is older in the mind, perhaps even smarter, than his father was at this age – even as he laughs too loudly and stumbles to apologise for himself, scuffing his boots in the dirt when he’s made to speak of himself and his upbringing and changing the subject as quickly as possible.

It’s almost convincing, but then there are the moments when he thinks Duncan’s not looking. When he’s consulting maps and looking at the sky, clearly tracking their route by the stars. Polishing armour with a silent, honest discipline his father never had, his eyes far away, bringing to mind things Duncan has heard about templar meditation. 

When there’s fear in his eyes but he beheads his first hurlock matter-of-factly, almost easily. Only afterwards, when his sword is cleaned and sheathed, does he remember to make a nervous joke about “nearly screaming like a girl.” It might be true, but there’s steel in his eyes.

Duncan thinks that Maric and Eamon were fools.

 

Teagan wonders when Alistair became a sovereign – the coin, not just  _a ruler,_ though he might have laughed at the confusion once. He could have been carved in metal, embossed. His face is steady, impassive, as if he’s training or playing Wicked Grace rather than being crowned the ruler of Ferelden. It’s surprising to see; Teagan thought he hadn’t inherited it from his father.

He’ll say something about that later, but more delicately, not wanting to see the way Alistair shrinks slightly in his boots, the hint of a grimace at the mention of Maric, quickly hidden. And Alistair will laugh, and say,  _“My father? No, that one was the Chantry. You try staying steady when half your classmates are making faces behind Brother Bertrand’s back and you’ll get caned if you fall out of formation or… breathe. ‘An unmoved demeanour befitting a servant of Andraste who is above all but his duty,’”_ he’ll echo, in a pompous _,_ false voice.

The laughter will fade when he holds court, that granite-faced quality returning, and the nobles don’t know what to make of him – only that he is their king, and they are terrified of making a wrong step in front of the pretender whose blood they were laughing about outside.

The farmers and the Alienage elves are treated differently, Teagan will notice, with smiles and nods, the boy casually listing in his chair as if it’s simply a social call and he’s about to ask for cake and scones to be brought through.

But for now, Alistair bows his head – due to tradition as much as the weight of the crown – and Teagan notices the hint of a smile on his face: small and surprised, but there.

 

Humans are stupid. It’s one of the first things her mother teaches her, when she doesn’t know much more than  _warm_ and  _food_ and  _ooh, biting is fun._

Humans never have any idea what’s good for them; if they find something decent they run away from it, and then you have to drag them back and maybe nudge them a little so they  _know._ They guard the wrong things and they get scared to show their teeth, and then they wonder why they’ve been backed into a corner and they’re afraid. Someone has to snarl for them, sometimes, because they’re not allowed to, or they  _think_ they’re not allowed to and that’s almost worse. Because they’re fierce, under it all, and once they know what they should be fighting for, they’ll fight with all their hearts. Sometimes it just takes too long.

Like her mother said: stupid. Though she’ll only realise just how stupid in the years to come, long after she’s wriggled into warm arms and she’s heard surprised laughter and noises, startled but soothing:  _Hey there, we haven’t met, have – Ow! Wow. Ow._

Long after she grins and burrows closer because  _warm_  and  _smells interesting_ and  _kind -_ she knows it like her heartbeat and the smell of hay and the fact she needs to help these stupid humans – he calls her  _Arlessa,_ with the barking that comes from amusement rather than anger.

This one isn’t too bad. Licking’s nearly as fun as biting. She’ll keep him.

She only realises later that a whole country went  _We’ll keep him_  too. Bad luck for them. He’s hers.

 

“You know, they just can’t get my nose right.”

The elf edges closer, parchment still in her arms, thinking that this was not the way she’d expected to have an audience. “I… Your Majesty?”

The king turns abruptly. “Right, sorry, hello.” He smiles in a way that almost looks genuine, for a  _shem_ noble. “Corani Valethan?”

Corani nods. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Good to know they didn’t drag the wrong representative in here. That happened once with the Orlesians, it was embarrassing. Anyhow… I was just thinking.” The king gestures to the portrait on the wall, the thing he must have been looking at. “It always feels a bit… self-aggrandising putting pictures of me around this place. It’s not like they’re about to forget that by the way, still king. I almost wonder if I should have one for every mood, you know? Angry me. Happy me. Regal me? I’ve never been much good at regal. One already feels like too much.” He clears his throat. “I’m rambling. I apologise. I’ve just had some very good news. But your proposal for the former Alienage…” The king walks to a great oak desk, and waves a hand. “I’ve heard good things. A lot of them.”

After staring at that display, Corani realises that this is… actually happening. She tentatively moves forwards and lays the parchment she’s been holding down on the desk, unfolding it slowly, and she mumbles, “So have I.”

He sounds surprised. “You… have?”

“About… you, Your Majesty. They said I’d be granted an audience. They said you were, uh…” She clears her throat. “’One of the good ones.’”

He laughs at that, and that’s too honest for a  _shem_  and all. “I’m trying,” he says quietly. “Believe me.”

It’s the strangest thing: she looks into his eyes, and she does.


End file.
